


5 Times Interplanetary Conflict Could Have Been (And Was) Avoided By Dicking Down The Head Of The Military

by bettergettheserioustoothpaste



Category: Duck Dodgers in the 24 1/2th Century
Genre: (or the threat of such), Ambiguous Description Of Genitals, Daddy Kink, Exhibitionism, LISTEN ONE OF MY FRIENDS WANTED ME TO WRITE THIS, M/M, POV Second Person, SHE DARED ME TO DO IT AND I DID AND NONE OF THIS IS MY FAULT!!!, a little bit of spanking but probably not enough to tag, but played in a very derisive and mocking manner, dodgers has a dick though. i'm ashamed i know that much., gratuitous jokes about both tiny toon adventures and i love lucy which i'm sorry about, i'm so sorry about these two they don't know how to be nice, marvin is a bottom and he doesn't like admitting it. but he is, vaguely described sex of some description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettergettheserioustoothpaste/pseuds/bettergettheserioustoothpaste
Summary: Or one of them, anyway.Because Marvin cannot help himself, and Dodgers is not complaining.





	5 Times Interplanetary Conflict Could Have Been (And Was) Avoided By Dicking Down The Head Of The Military

**Author's Note:**

> the fact that i wrote this makes me feel kind of bad about myself
> 
> the fact that dodgers' daddy kink is canonically reinforced makes me feel worse

It’s not really a conventional setup.  
  
You suppose, on the face of it, a conventional setup would be more along the lines of the more... socially acceptable. The romantic comedy lifestyle, the falling in love with a nice regular individual and having too many children and settling down in a nice suburban house somewhere with a lawn and only having standard, prescribed missionary sex whenever entirely biologically necessary kind of schtick.

Or something.

You would pride yourself on your lack of conventionality, but that would require you to actually own up to what you’re doing here, and you'd really rather not.

You’re not wearing your uniform properly. You’ve eschewed your regular choice of legwear - leggings, black, tight fitting but easy enough to move in, blending in with your skintone to create the illusion of… not, for whatever reason, which you personally always found a little pretentious but who are you to argue, here? You’re wearing socks, instead, also black, not quite supposed to come up all the way to your knees but hey, you’re short, fucking _sue_ you, so they do - and more besides. You had to fold them down so they rested under your knee instead of on it, so they wouldn't ride into the crevice of the joint in a way that would have bugged you to no end if not solved. You’ve gone with fancier underwear, today, the kind with assorted extra bits like lace edging and little bows - the kind you have to hide from the cleaners, essentially. (It’s kind of the equivalent, for you, of sexualising the outfit however you can, like some sort of buxom and dirty minded receptionist in the habit of doing up exactly three shirt buttons at a time, leaving the rest to either show off ample cleavage or create ends to tie together in a twee little knot that sort of pulls the rest of the outfit together.)

(Or both!) (Not that you can really do that with a turtleneck, of course, but when they made you leader of the planet’s military they probably weren’t thinking too hard about you being sexy.)

You're in Dodgers' room, and he's stood in front of you, looking down at you, and your arms are folded, and you’re looking back up at him, and you really do resent being so small (or shorter than him, at least, you could wear the height difference from anyone else) but you suppose it works in the _unconventional_ little dynamic you have going.

“But, you know, a truce is a truce, _Commander_.” Or a truthe, apparently, and (as you think on that, idly, and snort to yourself) you really do hate the way he stresses your title like that, as if he’s disgusted by it, or incredulous that it could be real, or attributed to you. “And last I checked, that leaves no reason for you to break into a guy’s room and yell at him so close to a national holiday.”

You decide not to question which holiday, lest he bring up Wink Martindale day again.

(He has his own room, in the palace, for diplomatic purposes - you don’t know _who_ elected him to Earth-Mars diplomat, but _someone_ did, but you’re not in the mood to debate the pros and cons of that, right now.)

“It’s an interplanetary truce.” You point out. “Not a “every citizen of both planets should join hands and sing a happy little song together” truce. I have a right to _yell_ at whoever I _wish_ to, _Captain._ " And you lean in a little, there, to emphasise your point. "And by no means can you force me to _like_ you.”

“Oh, please, like you’re not constantly seeking the privilege of my company.” Guy has a point there, you muse. You did kind of come to him. “Coming in here and getting all high and mighty on me-- and in _that_ sexy little getup, too--”  
  
You tilt your head at him.  
  
“Oh, my, you noticed.” you titter. Most things you say can be described as tittering. You have that kind of accent. “Oddly observant for you, Dodgers.” And he scoffs, and crosses his arms. 

“Yeah, well, sorry I don’t suffer from the Martian bug eyes thing you’ve got going on there. I mean, who animated you, Chuck Jones--”

You scowl.

“I resent being referred to as an insect, Dodgers, and if you’re going to complain about _my_ lack of decorum, truce in mind, this leaves you no leg to stand on--”  
  
“Oh, _really?"_  He cuts you off. God! You _hate_ it when he does that! “Then I think I know what’s gonna get you mad enough to get on the god damned bed.”  
  
So this is where this is going. (You figured as much. This is where you both planned it to go. You know that as well as he does.)

But you didn’t get where you are today by mindlessly obeying every bigshot who thinks they can order you around, every vain little scrublord who liked the sound of their own voice too much, and you are _not_ kowtowing to the likes of Captain Dodgers especially, so you plant your feet firmly on the ground and stare him down.

“ _Sorry_ ,” You’re really not, “Was that a _request_ or a _hypothetical_. Because I don’t remember hearing you _ask_.”

“Well, excuse me for assuming you could take a hint. How simple do I gotta make stuff to get it into that cueball head of yours?” He pushes your head, for dramatic effect. He's strong, and you're small, and it almost tips you over, and you  _hiss_ , grabbing his wrist in retort.

“I don’t take _orders_ , Dodgers. And especially _not_ the indirect and _expectational_ kind.” You’re not sure if that’s a word, but it gets the point across.

He tssks, and pulls his hand away, and wipes it on his leg like touching you is going to give him some unfortunate disease. You hate him.

“Get on the damn bed, Martian.”  
  
But the good thing about being the aforementioned Martian, you like to think, is that you’re a lot better than most Earth species at going for a while without blinking. Unrelenting eye contact works well for you.  
  
“Or _what_.”  
  
You might have your suspicions on what… else, works, too, in this specific scenario. You keep your arms folded and and your focus on Dodgers’ face.  
  
“ _Daddy_ .”  
  
You have no idea why that gets him as riled as it does, but you’re not complaining, even if you do spit the word like it’s the worst slur you know.

His eyebrows raise into his hairline (or... whatever qualifies) (featherline??), and you stare back, still - and your focus is still on intimidation, on threatening him into action, of whatever sort, for no purpose other than to win the battle that you walked yourself into in the first place.

(Funny how these things work.)

“Oh, come on.” His shoulders sink, a little, out of annoyance rather than sadness or relenting, and you know this means the game is on, now. This means  _war_ , in the immortal words. “You know how this goes, by now. Don’t act like you don’t.” He gives a half hearted point to emphasise his even more half hearted threat. “Go on, just. Get on the bed before I make you.”

“ _Make_ me.” It’s not said as a request; you’re more emphasising (and highlighting) the ridiculousness of the wording. And he keeps his hand out, pointing, like you’re some kind of dumb housecat, treading dirt into the hallway, or something.

“Don’t make me come over there.” He says, and you  _laugh_. It's very bitter.  
  
“Oh, no, sir, not all of two foot forwards, surely not.” You break the eye contact to roll your eyes. “And do _what_? Punish me? Give me a time out? Drop me off a second story balcony to teach me a lesson in coming of age?”

Dodgers is silent, for a moment, there, brow furrowed in perplexment, and when he speaks it’s equal parts wary and incredulous.

“Wow, uh, your planet really has issues with parenting, don’t it.”

You keep yourself from explaining that your upbringing was hardly usual by Martian standards, either, because now is not the time to talk about your tragic backstory and/or paternal abuse (maybe that's where all this comes from?) and instead counter with “That was not the point I was making, Dodgers. I was inviting you to do your worst.”

Dodgers pauses, for a moment, before shrugging, far too casually for your liking.

“Meh. I can work with that.”

And with that, he steps forwards and, aggravatingly effortlessly, scoops you right up and drapes you over his shoulder like you’re some kind of vegetation sack.

“Didn’t take that into account," he says, "Did’ja, shorty.”

Your response is muffled, upside down as you are, but hopefully coherent and audible.

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“I would, if you’d stop bitching at me long enough to let me do it.” He throws you down onto the mattress, somewhat roughly (the sack comes to mind, again) and wastes no time, once you fall, to rolling you onto your front, and pinning you down with a hand to the small of your back.

You make some kind of muffled, and clearly exasperated, noise.

The hand on your back pushes down, a little more, in response, and even with your face unceremoniously smushed into the sheets, you can hear him gloating behind you. “Aww, what’s the matter? That big old vocabulary not doing it for you today?”

You can’t talk, still, not coherently, but you _can_ reach behind you and throw out a clumsy, blind, middle finger to the general direction you think Dodgers is, so that’s exactly what you do, fidgeting in your place a little bit to get the momentum.

There’s a pause, and then a “Yeah, uh, a little to the, uh. Right, a bit.”

You move your hand.

“Yeah, yeah, and then up.”

You move your hand, again, and from behind you you hear a “Yeah, that’s it, close enough.” and you feel the pressure shifting, and before you can say anything he somehow has your arms, too, crossed over your back, both pinned under his hand, and the other hand flips up the back of your skirt - far too casually, for your liking. You squirm a bit and briefly wonder how much experience Dodgers has with upskirting people.

Though, wait, actually, that would not surprise you.

But wait, no, his hand is on the back of your leg, now, and you’re _clearly_ focusing on the wrong thing, here, considering, and then it travels and finds the waistband of your underwear and you exhale, slowly, try not to give away the nerves setting in, and you hear some sort of clicking noise that you assume probably came from his mouth, and then he says “Whoo, boy, which poor temp did you steal these from.”

They... are actually yours. You bought them for... this exact purpose. But it’s not like you can say that, because your face is smushed into the mattress, and even if you _could_ you'd never admit it, so you give a half hearted little shrug instead.

“Seriously. I thought my underwear was embarrassing.”  But Dodgers continues, as he always does, and you attempt to snark about the way he pronounces certain words in that sentence (mumbling a contemptuous yet muffled “Oh, _theriouthly_ ” into the sheets) but you’re immediately pulled away from that because he’s just tugged them down and now there’s a hand on your ass.

"You could have made this easy, you know. We could have done this the nice way. Had a real good time." He's paused, a little, doing nothing but pinning you with one hand and just.... letting his other hand  _sit_ , and you squirm. You could probably break free in a real danger situation, if you were  _really_ being subjugated and pinned against your will, but... you're not. This is just your fetish. So you just... lay there and let him do it.

"But no." Dodgers is talking again. Because that’s what he does. "You had to be a little brat about it." And honestly,  _why_ does he talk like a villain from a Saturday morning cartoon? He tightens his grip, just a little, in a very obnoxious grope, and you  _squeak_ , and he exhales derisively, and you hate him.

And you briefly consider the fact that you’re sort of the second in command of an entire planet.

Dodgers seems less focused on his role in politics, though, because here he moves his hand down, a little, to the back of your leg, gently, and continues.

“And I think somebody’s about to learn that his actions have consequences.”

You really can’t help it. You snort into the sheets, what would be a full on chuckle if not muffled as it is, wriggle a little, with the effort, and-- Well, Dodgers apparently does not take this well, because good _lord_ he has just smacked you on the ass.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

But he falters, as he says it, eases up on pushing you down _just_ enough for you to get momentum to lift your head,just a little, just _enough_ , and so you do.

“ _Conthequenthes_.” Because this is what you do with the gift of speech.

He smacks you again, and unfortunately, you’re not muffled any more, so on the con side this gives him the satisfaction of hearing you hiss with the impact. “Shut up.” he says. “I don’t make fun of your shortcomings.”

There are a good number of frankly marvellous puns he could make with that statement, and you really hope he doesn’t make any of them.

“On the contrary.” you say, instead, "You've been nothing but kind of xenophobic since I got here." And you just leave the sentence there, because it’s your opinion that it’s a good and obvious enough statement by itself. Dodgers’ response to this is to push you down, again, pressing your face back into the bed you’re leaning on, and he smacks you again, and you actually vocalise, this time, and then wince because you really, really did not want to give him the satisfaction of that, especially when he refuses to acknowledge his own problematic behaviour.

It makes him stop, briefly, though, so you’ve evidently done _something_.

And then his hand finds your ass again, gently, this time, just sort of rests there, and he says “Careful with that volume,” and you furrow your brow, as much as you can, and _then_ he says “Wouldn’t want to attract any unwanted attention.” and your heart skips a beat.

Maybe he notices that you tense. Maybe he just knows what sort of reaction that would get from you. Either way, he gives a sort of obnoxious giggle.

“I bet she’d get a real kick out of seeing this.”

And you freeze up.

There’s a little more pressure. Not much. Just enough to gently confirm that there is, indeed, a hand on your ass.

“Wonder what she’d say.”

You’re… actually completely still, now. You almost want to squirm, just a bit, but there’s something that stops you, immobilises you, and it’s _mostly_ anxiety, somewhere between anxiety and fear, but there’s a guilty sort of heat that comes with it, too, something that makes your stomach flip over and you’re _really_ not sure if that’s the anxiety or something _else_ , something you should feel ashamed for.

And dear god. You are second in command of an entire planet.

Maybe that’s the point.

“Maybe,” and he smacks you again, and you cry out, this time, a little louder, and you can blame how weird and unsettled your stomach feels on that.

“She’d tell me,” and again, “What a good job I’m doing,” and again, “Getting her unruly little protege,” and again, and you really want to tell him that you’re the  _head of the militia,_ thanks, not her god damned _cadet_ , but you’re cut off from that train of thought by him smacking you again, “under _control_.”

You kick out, as hard as you can, and he lets go in his effort to get out of the way, and you somehow push up, on shaky (and newly freed) arms, to mumble a “Don’t you _dare_ ,” and you’re really not sure what you’re protesting, but it’s something, and it’s enough to get you riled.

And… something else, apparently, but you’re just going to ignore that.

“Hey, hey.” His hand goes to your back, pats you, as if to sooth, and his other hand shoves you back down. “I’m not threatening anything, here. It’s just a simple observation. It’s not my fault that someone’s a little sensitive.”

He smacks you again, and you kick your legs, just a bit, and through that it occurs to you that where he’s got you, your feet don’t... actually reach the floor. You’re just sort of dangling here. You briefly wonder if that was intentional, before deciding no, it’s just a side effect of your being so damn _tiny_ , and it’s now that you’re cursing that to the highest hell.

Or….. lowest??? Something? You don’t know. It’s not your fault that you didn’t pay much attention to your Earth Studies classes.

Oh god, _ow_ , you really hope he stops this soon because you have a meeting at five and you’d really rather go into that with the ability to sit still.

“I mean, you got issues with job security, or--”

He trails off, and you almost question why, but the hand on your ass lingers, for a moment, and--

It occurs to you that you’ve spent the past few minutes sort of makeshift rutting into the edge of his mattress.

And if you weren’t embarrassed before, you are now.

You don’t know if he’s incredulous, or just... picking on you, here, if he’s legitimately confused (or appalled) or if this is just another attempt at undermining you, but then he speaks, and it’s “Are you... getting off on this?” and you’re not really sure what the answer to that is.

He does, however, ease off enough for you to raise your head again.

“What part.” Deadpan, if flustered. “The humiliation or the assault.” The answer is both, by the way! Because you're _terrible!_  Not that you’re admitting any kind of guilt here, honestly (technically) but starting off your sentence with stammery denial would just give him cause to pick on you more. It’s the way he works. You’ve learnt a lot about his methods of argument.

Which is probably not a good thing.

Dodgers makes some kind of affected noise that could be best described as between a sign and a cough.

“You,” he says, “Are one messed up little cockroach.”

You snort. “Speak for yourself, _daddy_.”

“Alright, that’s--” He cuts himself off, rephrases, “It’s different, and-- I mean come _on_ , some kind of... voyeurism deal, or what, is that what this is, or--”

You wait. Dodgers pauses.

“Shut up,” he says, again, and smacks you again, too, and it’s even harder and you wince, kicking your legs on instinct.

“I’d really rather you stopped that.” You say - and maybe surreptitiously glance at the clock as you do. You still have like a good few hours, so you _should_ be fine. The idea of stumbling into said meeting late and obviously flustered and hyper aware of the backs of your legs is one that definitely only fills you with horror and absolutely nothing else.

You take your job very seriously, okay. That's why you're doing so  _well_ at it right now.

“Why should I? I have the power here.” The words of a true dictator, and you want to say you’re really glad he’s pretty much small fry, as far as The Protectorate is concerned, because this is why he’s not in charge of anything important, but he's Earth-Mars fucking _diplomat_ , now, because of  _course_ he is, obnoxious  _pillock_ , and Dodgers smacks you again, like he can hear your thoughts, and you hiss a little more. “I can keep you here as long as I want.”

“Mm.” You try to sound indifferent. You feel like you’re too shaky for it to work. “It’s getting old.”

“Excuse me for not being too concerned with your preferences.” But this time, his hand moves, takes the rumpled fabric of your underwear to gently slide it further down your leg, and then off, and you fidget.

“That’s healthy,” you say (though with full knowledge that if there _was_ a problem, he would immediately cease) (you’re just a contrarian, really, it’s what you do) and then you say “Is this going somewhere?” and you try to sound indifferent again, but your voice is still too shaky for it to work, and maybe it’s the building apprehension that does it, this time. You’re not sure.

“It’s going straight on out of here if you don’t learn a little patience.” There’s a grumble in his voice. The hand that was undressing you is long gone, and you wonder what he’s doing back there. You can’t move your head enough to check.“Jeez, where did you learn your manners.”

“I could say the same.” You fire back. “It’s generally considered a little rude to keep a guest waiting for longer than necessary.”

“Well sorry about that, Lucy Ricardo, but I’m _trying_ to work up a little anticipation here.” He’s pinning your arms again, you notice, and you briefly wonder about that, too, until you feel him sliding something under your wrists, pulling it back up, to wrap it around, and-- Oh. Oh, okay. It feels a little like a shoelace, but you’re not sure. You wriggle a little, but it holds firm, and you resign yourself to just sort of laying there in your quasi-immobilised state until you feel a hand between your legs and you jump a little.

Oh, god. You try to calm yourself back down, and focus on something else, because you really don’t want to give him the satisfaction of falling to pieces now, and you speak - it’s shakier, and you’re probably sweating buckets, true Tex Avery shit going on here - but it’s there.

“I don’t know who that is.”

He has what feel like a finger and a thumb inside you and you decide it’s a ridiculous statement.

“Wait, sorry?” He’s enabling your bullshit, apparently, and he moves the digits a little further away from each other, in obvious preparation, and you tense, breathe in, breathe back out. You can feel your composure slipping a little. It feels too good for you to be able to maintain a coherent conversation, and you  _really_ hate that he can do that to you.

(Objectively. You also really fucking love it, otherwise you wouldn't be  _doing_ it, but it's not very good for your image.)

“L-Lucy Ricardo.” This is a completely inane conversation to be having considering the circumstances. You’re fully aware of this, but it’s helping you focus, at least. “I don’t--”

His hands retracts, and you stifle a whimper (god, you haven’t even got _started_ yet) and you try to ignore the zipper sound coming from behind you, lest you lose yourself even more than you already have.

“Wait, what?” He says, and the fingers are, apparently, being replaced by something else, and it’s an honest to god moan that comes from you, now, which you somehow manage to stifle, and he completely disregards it in the favour of continuing aforementioned conversation.

“You’ve never seen _I Love Lucy_?”

There is a dick inside you. You swallow.

“Can’t say I have.”

“Huh,” he says, and what _is_ his weird, unnerving obsession with pop culture? Pervasive enough to _keep going_ , with this, when there are far more pressing matters to attend to? He starts moving, and you bite back another moan, as he starts up a basic rhythm.

“You should check it out.” Dodgers continues, blissfully oblivious. “It’s pretty good.”

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding - and it’s shaky, it was a deep breath, and you exhale it slowly, and try not to focus too much on the fact that, again, see earlier reference to aforementioned dick, because you’re not really that great on the whole stamina front and you’re really trying not to shut this down early.

Instead, you focus your attention on the far wall, and swallow.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”  
  
He hits something and you go back on your word and forget it entirely.

“Huh.” The same nonchalant tone he was using earlier. There’s a slight malicious hint to it. It’s his teasing voice, or something. Fuck, you don’t know. “Someone’s getting a little loud.”

“I’m surprised you could hear me over the sound of your own _ah_ .” Breathe out, breathe in. “Your own swollen, hyperinflated eg- _o oh lord--”_

“Sorry, Marcia.” He sounds very smug. You’re not sure what his obsession with giving you feminine nicknames is. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

You cough.

“I have a niece called Marcia.” you say. “Please don’t call me that in bed.”

“Ah.” He says, even has the decency to sound a little perturbed, by that, and then “Sorry. Didn’t know. Hope I didn’t make this awkward.”

“Honestly,” You manage, swallowing again, hard, “I really don’t care.”

“Aw.” He’s teasing you again. He speeds up and you gasp, and then whine, and try to push back on it, but you can’t get any purchase on the floor and it makes it a little difficult.

“Is it that good?”

You hate him.

“You are s- _o_ \--” Your voice catches, on the “o” sound, and you have to fight to keep it from turning into a full on moan. “ _So_ obsessed with yourself.”

“Speak for yourself.” he says, and it’s a cryptic comment and normally you’d push for clarification but he’s at a _really_ good angle and the pace is decent and, as hard as you try, you’re not producing words any more. Just little strangled noises.

You squirm, a little, and your breath is ragged and there’s a hand on your back, again, then, and when he speaks it’s surprisingly gentle.

“You, uh. You holding up okay, there?”

It’s only now that you notice he’s a little out of breath himself, and you can’t lie, that makes you feel a little better. You nod.

“You just seem a little tense, is all.” Dodgers doesn’t seem convinced, if his reply is any indication. His hand stays on your back, involuntarily rubbing it a little, moving with the effort of moving his hips. Why is he being this tender with you, you wonder. This is supposed to be hate sex, for god’s sake. “You can just let yourself enjoy it, you know.”

You want to say that you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but again, you’re not really in the frame of mind to form coherent sentences, so you nod, and try to relax a little, and-- okay, rephrase, you don’t take orders from _most_ people. Mostly. And you definitely don’t take orders from the likes of Dodgers for more than approximately an hour and a half of the day.

You have kinks. _Sue_ you, honestly. Everyone has their flaws. You like to think you do pretty well at everything else.

But it feels good! It genuinely does, and maybe that’s why you stay in relative peace for the next ten minutes, or so, save for the sounds of your mutual breathing (nice to know that’s working, you think sardonically) but it’s almost a little more painful, than that, it almost feels _too_ good, like you can’t handle it, not to the full extent, but at the same time you can’t be without it, either, and you _definitely_ don’t want it to stop - it _can’t_ , honestly, not in your state, so you just have to stay like this, let it build, let yourself lose the ability for coherent thought, because it’s kind of getting a little intense, back here--

And fuck the Queen, honestly, fuck her and fuck your job and fuck her opinions on things, and you can honestly say if she walked in right now there is no way in _hell_ you would want this to stop, you don't _care_ , you _can’t_ , even if, technically, you don’t really have a say in it--

And you _don’t_ have a say in it and maybe that’s the _point_ and you’re basically the leader of a whole god damn _planet_ and this _asshole_ can just take you off the shelf and reduce you to _this_ and _use_ you like a god damn _toy_ \--

And what kind of leader does that make you? What _would_ they say, any of them? How can you be the composed and ruthless leader this planet and the militia need, in times of war and crisis, if you’re this much of a reprehensible little slut behind doors--

"Hey." There are hands on your shoulders, and they're rubbing them, just a bit, and Dodgers' face is close enough to yours in this position for you to be able to hear him, even though he seems to be whispering. Probably not much point. You're not exactly being quiet yourself. "Hey. It's okay. I've got you." He gets like this, sometimes. Maybe he's a little insecure about (or scared of) his own ability to get you... well, like this. You're not really in a position _yet_ where you need reassurance, but you appreciate the gesture. A solid dedication to aftercare is a necessity, for this sort of thing, and you'd rather too much than none.  
  
Not that you're anywhere _near_ capable of thinking about that, because you may or may not have just climaxed.

You don’t realise you’re crying out until you stop, and you don’t realise how tense you were, for a moment, before you relax, and you’re left just sort of laying there and calming down, and dimly recognising, sort of, oh, yeah. That sure was an orgasm. Nice to know.

Dodgers gives your shoulders a gentle rub, and catches his own breath (good to know he enjoyed himself just as much, you supposed, judging by how exhausted he sounds) and you cough a little. God, you think, bitterly. So much for not giving him the satisfaction.

...And then your next thought is that you feel _disgusting_.

It’s as much as you can do, really, to keep yourself distracted from whatever shit’s going on in your head with that thought, that you could really do with showering, and it’s just as you register that, swallow again (your mouth is... really dry, how did you only just notice) you feel Dodgers finish untying your hands and pull you back up.

And on whatever gods are up there, you ache. How long have you been bent over that bed for? You wince, stumble a little, as your feet find themselves and you relearn how to stand, and Dodgers helps you to your feet, to his credit, and then gives your shoulder a small and very gentle shove in the direction of the ensuite that you interpret as playful, in a sort of..... enemy-ish banter sort of way.

“Alright, get moving,” he says. “You need to shower. You’re all sweaty. It’s gross.”

You take what feels like your first breath in years and manage a small, weak “Well, who’s fault is that.”

“Hey, don’t pin this on me. You’re the instigator here.”

“Whatever.” You’re really not in a position to argue with him. Your back has recovered, from being bent over like that, and so have your stomach muscles, but-- Oh. Right. You’d forgotten exactly _why_ the back of your legs are so sore, and it’s remembering _that_ that colours your face all over again. You turn away in an attempt to not let him see it.

“I’m not in the mood to argue with you.” Oh, dear lord, walking is hard. You’re so glad he has an ensuite shower. You really do not want to picture hobbling up the corridor like this. “You can join me if you want. It’s a free planet.”

“Yeah, no. Nice try, shorty.” He sounds amazingly contemptuous considering he had his dick in you a good two minutes ago. “I know you and your freaky Martian water. You’re not getting me _that_ easy. I like my skin _on_ my body, thank you!”

You sigh.

“It’s the same water, Dodgers.” You’re not in the mood for this. You just want to shower. “It’s the same chemical structure. The atmosphere in Mars is similar enough to that on Earth to generate essentially the same--” You break off. “This is your shower, Dodgers. This is your _room_ . You’ve used it _before_.”

“Oh.” Like he didn’t _know_ that. He shrugs. “Well, alright, sure. Sounds good to me.”

God. God, you really hate him.

But you lock the door behind you both, and you’re about to shower with the guy, after having a whole lot of kinky and intense sex with him, and you’re not entirely sure you can make a case for that any more. (You’re really not sure how your life got to this point, but you decide it can’t really be helped. It works for you. That’s all you need, really.)

You climb into the shower with your arch nemesis from the planet your planet has been at war with for hundreds of years and decide convention can go fuck itself.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a dare from one of my friends please don't judge me


End file.
